Not Addicted
by rivers-of-tea
Summary: Oikawa Tooru wonders what it would be like to be injured. How far will he go in this pursuit of curiosity? And when does simple curiosity become something far more sinister?


**Please, be careful reading this if you have triggers regarding self harm. This story is quite detailed.**

 **Thank you and please enjoy.**

It started with a slap.

In the movies, there is always a moment when the hero must face the villain.

In action movies, this confrontation almost always takes place in the form of a big fight between the main characters. And because movies thrive upon tension, there must always be that moment when the villain appears to have beaten the hero.

As Tooru watched the action movie currently playing on his TV, he noted the moment when the villain got in one good punch to the hero's face. The villain's elbow would lead the motion of their body away from the hero, twisting their body and bringing their fist close to their face in a big wind up to generate maximum power. Then they would twist the other way, driving their fist toward the face of the hero before connecting with their jaw. The hero's face would snap to the side and the audience would gasp, waiting with bated breath for the moment when the hero would look back at the villain, determination in their gaze and blood trickling from the corner of their mouth to deliver a wicked one liner that let the villain and audience know that they weren't beaten, before mounting their comeback and subsequently saving the day in true hero fashion.

In Tooru's opinion, these moments were always the most exciting of the whole movie. They summed up the whole character's personality in one deliciously witty one liner before kicking right back into an awesome action scene. In comparison to his regular, boring life, these moments filled him with excitement. It was these moments he thought of when he was feeling down or overwhelmed, as was the case on this day.

He stared at himself in the mirror, noting his appearance with disinterest. Pale skin, clear but lacking any semblance of warmth. Plain brown hair, curling annoyingly around his neck and across his forehead, leaving wisps of curl pointing in a million different directions. Plain brown eyes, common and undifferentiable from the dirt in his backyard.

He wondered how he would look as a hero. His skin golden from time spent in the sun saving civilians or working out. His hair perfectly coiffed even after his dramatic rescue. His eyes, shining like melted chocolate in the evening sun as he looked over the city from his high vantage point after a day of fulfilling hero work.

He looked away from the mirror before side eyeing himself and attempting to exude an impressive aura, while reciting some of his favourite witty come back lines from the moments he loved so much. Combined with his terrible acting, he knew the moment wasn't the same without the skin reddening, blood producing effect a good punch from the villain could provide. He wondered how he could replicate this feeling and after drawing a blank realised the only solution would be to punch himself.

Now Tooru wasn't crazy. He knew it was stupid to punch yourself simply to relive an awesome moment from a movie. Not only that, he couldn't even figure out a way to punch himself in the face in any sort of efficient manner. Plus, he didn't want to make himself bleed.

Yet he found within himself a strange, desperate need to be injured. He wanted to be hurt in an obvious way, so that he could rise above the injury and prove to others and himself that he was stronger than they thought. That he was a survivor and could not be beaten down by others.

So he settled for a slap. He looked in the mirror, could feel his heart pounding. His hand shook in nervous excitement before he pulled his hand back, hesitating for a single moment before bringing his hand down in a wide swing and slapping himself across the face.

The crack sounded loudly in the piercing quiet of the bathroom and he froze in terror. What if his mum heard and came to check on him? After a few moments, waiting silently and with bated breath he realised no one was coming and relaxed.

He admired his face in the mirror. His cheek and jaw had a pleasing red flush, however, it certainly didn't look like he had been punched or even minorly injured. He frowned in displeasure. This wasn't good enough. So he looked at himself, pulled back his arm, and swung again.

And again.

And again.

And again.

Ten slaps later his skin was deliciously flush. His cheek and jaw bright red, he could feel the heat radiating from his face. His eyes were a little wild with excitement, the brown lit by a ring of gold light reflected from the fluorescent lights of the bathroom. His hair tousled away from his face and the rest of his skin pink with excitement. His heart pounded in his chest and he could feel the adrenaline course through him. He looked like a hero he thought, and suddenly, he was content.

* * *

It started with a balloon stick.

It was his birthday. His mother had insisted that all the family come over to celebrate and so all of the Oikawa's were gathered in Tooru's home, chatting over lunch and laughing over cake. His mother had bought a helium balloon with celebratory Happy Birthday's plastered all over its surface. It was part of a cluster of 4 balloons all attached to sticks placed in a weighted base.

A week later, even the helium balloon had deflated, and on a whim, he decided to keep one of the plastic sticks before throwing the rest into the bin.

He returned to his bedroom and considered the stick. It was long and white, made of some kind of flexible but stiff plastic. He wasn't sure what he was going to do with it when a sudden idea came to mind.

Since the first slapping incident, Tooru had found himself in the exact same position in his bathroom. Skin flushed and one side of his face pleasantly aching every time he found himself sinking under the weight of expectations placed upon him for school and volleyball.

However, despite the immediate gratification, he had never bruised from his self-inflicted sessions. He had never had any sort of lasting mark which he could admire between his visits to the bathroom. And he desperately wanted one.

He considered the balloon stick, ensured his bedroom door was shut, and quickly rolled up the arm of his school shirt, revealing a long, pale, unmarked forearm. He picked up the stick and before he could reconsider, brought it down in a long arc to whack against his inner forearm.

It stung, but he felt high off the adrenaline. Where he had hit there remained a thin, bright red line, marring the pale skin. He was excited, this hurt more than the slaps. He had to do it again. And so, he did.

And again.

And again.

And again.

Soon the whole of his inner forearm was covered in thin red lines from the painful meeting between stick and skin. He admired the way his skin flushed in the light. The way he could turn his arm in all directions and still see the marks. He swapped hands, pulling up the sleeve on his dominant arm and going at it with even more vigour than he had previously.

When that arm was done, he shucked of his school pants, sitting on his bed in his underwear before marking up his thighs in the same manner. It was a kind of trance; the nervous excitement and anticipation of pain while he lifted the stick, the flash of pain when he brought it down on the tender flesh of his body, the rush of adrenaline and relief when he saw the line and then the desire for another. His voracious appetite not letting him rest until both arms and thighs glowed red, pouring out heat from hundreds of little red lines now covering his body.

He fell back onto his bed, breathing hard, letting the stick fall to the floor. He felt at peace. Hopefully these marks would stay longer.

* * *

It started with a push pin.

Tooru had been thinking about self-harm for a while. In his spare time, he found himself trawling through the internet searching for images of arms and thighs covered in pale scars. In some images, there were only a few cuts. In others, the landscape of entire limbs had been altered. Some cuts were regular and precise, others varying in length and direction. Some images had bandages and words like "help" covering the scars. Others had the word "FAT" carved into flesh.

He found himself googling firsthand accounts of self-harm. He read countless stories about why people felt the need to hurt themselves. He read stories of people who were physically or sexually abused by strangers and family members alike. Stories about kids targeted for bullying and people suffering relationship breakdowns. Stories about the suffocating feeling of academic pressure and people drowning in self-loathing.

He learnt about the pros and cons of push pins, razors and box cutters. About direction and depth. About places easy to hide and methods to hide cuts in more exposed areas. He learnt about how to correctly sterilise and about different types of antibiotic creams and bandages. He learnt about how to minimise scarring, and how to increase it.

One day it was all too much. Feelings of anxiety had been growing within his chest all day, pushing on his heart and lungs. His chest ached, and his breathing was shallow and rapid. He scratched at his chest, trying to dig under his skin and relieve the tingling itch. He pushed his shoulders back when he breathed in an attempt to get more air. In the end, he selected a clear push pin from the corkboard in his bedroom.

Tooru had read plenty of stories about how addictive cutting could be. But he knew he wasn't like that. This was a one time thing. He was curious. Would it help relieve this crushing feeling in his chest? Would it really be as cathartic as the people online had lead him to believe? Surely it just hurt. He didn't understand.

He rolled up his sleeves and considered the expanse of pale, unblemished forearm with disappointment. He had such hope for the balloon stick and while the marks had definitely lasted longer; 2 days had passed before they had faded into almost nothingness. Again, he didn't bruise. Perhaps there was something wrong with him. Surely it was unusual to not bruise in the face of such trauma. It frustrated him to no end, leaving feelings of anxiety within his chest. Was it too much to ask for something permanent or at least more distinctive.

So after completely coating the pin with an antibiotic liquid, he held the push pin between his index finger and thumb, placed it along one side of his wrist and with a shaky, nervous sigh, ran it with slight pressure across the expanse of his wrist.

It didn't hurt anywhere near as much as he thought it would. But geez it felt good. Euphoric almost. He pushed with just enough pressure to leave an immediate thin white line surrounded by slightly raised reddish skin. It looked like a simple scratch but he loved it. Finally, he thought, this will take longer to heal. With the gratifying release of his anxious energy he knew that he needed another. So he braced his pin against the soft flesh of his inner arm, and pressing slightly harder he scratched himself again.

And again.

And again.

And again.

This was far more satisfying, and once he had marked up his arm with regularly spaced, perfectly parallel lines, he felt immensely more calm. Finally, the expanse of anxious energy within his chest dissipated. He felt peaceful, in control, and enormously excited about the prospect of watching his scratches slowly heal.

Throughout the following week, whenever Tooru felt himself getting anxious, he would place a hand on his arm, right above the scratches and try to feel the raised skin of their marked passing. When he was alone, he would roll up his sleeves and stare at them. Gently caressing them as he fell asleep.

He loved them. He loved the euphoric feeling of creating them. The instant relief they blessed him with. But he was lucky, he thought, that he wasn't addicted. He didn't have time for anything else in life other than school and volleyball anyway. This was just something he did out of curiosity. Out of a need to understand other humans. Really, this was just a science project. He could stop whenever he wanted. It wasn't like the idea haunted the back of his mind at all times. Not at all.

* * *

It started with a razor.

His push pin scratches were healing nicely and whenever he was feeling anxious, or simply drifting off to sleep he found himself running his hands up and down his arm, enjoying the contrast of smooth unblemished skin and the slightly raised, scratchy texture of his marks.

However, his push pin scratching had progressed to push pin cutting. He still wasn't very brave. But the scratches, though red and satisfying immediately after they were created, faded to almost gone within the week. It wasn't enough; he desired a longer lasting effect and so had increased the pressure he applied to the pin. He still wasn't bleeding but as he pulled the pin along he saw small clumps of skin being dragged along with it.

When he released the pin, he pulled on either side of the mark, looking at the red line no longer on the skin but within it and pulling in the hopes of producing blood. These marks took longer to heal, and created nice raised scabs for him to caress as he went about his day.

Soon it wasn't enough. Tooru wanted to bleed. However, he knew that he wasn't getting anywhere with the push pin. He still wasn't addicted. He knew that he could stop whenever he liked. It wasn't like he was cutting everyday or that it was all he thought about. But it still fascinated him. He wanted to know how it felt to carve his flesh. Wanted to understand what drove people to this point.

He went to his local chemist and picked up a set of double sided razors. He was terrified the entire time waiting in line. Convincing himself that they wouldn't ask what they were for; that if they did he could claim his dad has sent him to get them for his shaving needs. He discarded the receipt and wrapping in a bin outside the store, walking home with a small, plain box tucked into the pocket of his school trousers.

When he got home, the first thing he did was hide the box amoungst the tangle of electrical cords, discarded papers and various odds and ends within the bottom drawer of his bedside table. No one would ever find them in there, but their presence haunted his every waking moment until finally, a day came when he would be home alone.

He knew he wanted to bleed but didn't have any idea how much blood a cut would produce. He obviously didn't want to go to the hospital or cause irrevocable harm so he was hoping it would be easily manageable with some alcohol wipes and Band-Aids. He locked himself in the bathroom, thinking that if someone came home he could just claim he was getting ready to shower. He stripped down to his underwear, making sure there was no chance of getting any blood on his clothes. He also brought in a red hand towel, just in case he needed to clean any blood off the tiles.

He sat on the floor resting against the wall, the tiles cold on his legs and back. He played some music, in the hopes of muffling any potential grunts of pain. He was shaking in anticipation as he carefully removed one of the razors from its packaging. It looked exactly like so many that he had seen covered in blood in his google image searches. He held it gently in the middle, careful not to touch the razor edge on both sides before placing it gently against the skin of his forearm, right alongside his still healing push pin cuts.

He had hoped to cut to bleed immediately but he was too scared. His hand shook so much all he could manage was a light scratch. He sighed shakily as he tried again and again, but couldn't muster the courage to cut any deeper. He felt his frustration growing within his chest; the need to cut growing like a sickness in his mind. He looked down at his thigh and quickly without thinking created three shallow cuts out of frustration. They didn't hurt and he was surprised when they started to bleed. As small drops of blood collected along the marks, Tooru finally let out a deep breath that he hadn't realised he had been holding.

Now, he knew he could do it. They had begun to sting, but he was no longer afraid. He had already taken the biggest step. Now, he just had to repeat it. He looked at his forearm and chose the part of his arm near his elbow; easily covered for volleyball practice by an elbow pad. Recreating the process from his thigh, he slashed indiscriminately along the side of his forearm again.

And again.

And again.

And again.

Each time, blood immediately welled from the slices. He wasn't pouring blood like he expected, but as he gently caressed each new cut he felt drops of blood collect on his fingers. He didn't feel as euphoric as he had with the pin scratches and yet, the feeling of relief spread like a warm balm deep within his body. He had never felt so in love with his body. Each new drop of blood felt like success, like achieving something he had been working towards without even knowing it.

He grabbed his phone and took a quick photo. He wanted to remember this. The scratches, the blood, still fresh and wet and covering his arm like his own, personal, artistic masterpiece.

* * *

A week later, Tooru hadn't cut anymore. He was still living off the glow of his first session. Staring at the scabs and caressing them had become his favourite way of memorialising the incident.

His favourite scab was quite raised and red, even a week later, and he looked at it like a mother looked at her new born child. Eyes filled with love, trepidation and anticipation for what was to come.

He knew when he would next be alone and wondered what would happen if he changed the location of his cuts. He wondered what it would be like to cut along his wrist. His veins were right there, would the cuts he had already made be deep enough to nick a vein? He didn't want to die, but he was curious about how he could increase the amount of blood his cuts produced.

A few more days, he said to himself, just a few more before there will be enough alone time to practice again. He was lucky, he thought, that he wasn't addicted. Otherwise he would be spending far too much of his time wondering where he could cut that wouldn't be revealed in his volleyball uniform. It wasn't like he was more aware of the way his top pulled from where it was tucked into his shorts when he tossed the ball. Or the way his shorts rode up when he dived for the receive. Not at all.


End file.
